Playing at God
by liebedero
Summary: Erik the Phantom contemplates his existence as the Phantom of the Opera and his holding of Christine. Book based Phantom. T for destructive themes


Playing at God

Erik knew that he had been playing at being God for far too long. Everything that he had done…manipulation, blackmail, seduction… All in the name of Erik the Almighty. He chuckled in spite of himself. He was like the Devil, playing at God. Let's live deep down, below civilization, and never visit the great above. No, that was defiantly _not_ his territory, at least according to Mlle. Daaé. She had thought that her fool of a lover and she would be safe from his glowing yellow eyes up, and up on the roof of the Opera House. A god, however, had hidden the beast behind his lyre. How very kind of Apollo.

And yet again here he was in his cavernous home. Alone. The Devil hadn't tempted Christ with Hell, no, the Devil had tempted Christ with all of God's domain. Well, down in his lair, Erik was God, and his domain was vast and outspanning into the whole of the Opera House. And this is what the monster had offered to the little Prima Donna. His heavenly Hell.

And she, good little girl as she was, had not been tempted in the least! Erik stood, his cloak swirling around his legs, and stalked over to his magnificent organ and sat down with a flourish. Why, he could have gone on playing at God forever, in his game of deceit! But that wouldn't change the fact that he lived in Hell, and wallowed in his self pity.

How on earth was that tempting in the least? Of course, he had made room for the little Shrew, casting out Carlotta and bringing her, his little protégé, to the forefront of the grand stage. And still little Christine had opted for the fool; the young Vicomte was a mere fop! Why Erik, he, now he was a genius. A Prodigy!

And now, of love, he was dying! How pitiful playing at God had ended, and in the only way possible: with the stark realization that he, Erik, Le fantôme, was not, and never was, God. How righteous an ending! He had hidden away his deformity, like Satan flaunting the wings of Archangel Michael, only to loose it when it meant the most.

And oh, for Christine's love he would have been God, anything, at all, for her. He had been deluding himself for far too long, and he was paying for it.

"The Devil's child indeed…Well Satan, Devil take the Hindmost," he spat out in his rapturous voice. And Erik would have been perfectly happy to have died there and then, with just those words on his horrendously deformed lips, banging his head on the organ's keys, and in doing so let his candle-wax, paper thin, and yellowing skin shred. He did not care, for there was no blood to clean up as a result.

He recalled faintly the feeling that he gotten from strutting about as Red Death, up and down the halls, a spectral shade once more, people calling out all around:

"Do not touch me! I am Red Death stalking about!"

He had made quite the game of it, and it was then that the feeling of being a demi-god was palpable. He chuckled as he continued to slowly, ever so slowly, drop his head onto the keys with the harsh sound of off tones and fragile skin tearing. He was indeed quite mad, he thought to himself. And it was almost gleeful, this thought. The fact that he, Erik, was quite mad, was gleeful!

He laughed even more, in a menacing way, the way that he had laughed in his horror and anger as he saw Christine and the little Vicomte together. For, even in ones madness, one can be genius, as being genius is on the brink of being in madness, and as all knew, one had to be slightly mad to be mastermind.

Why he had built the whole of the catacombs by himself! He knew all the trapdoors in the whole of the Opera. He had even memorized the blueprints! Yes, indeed, in the Paris Opera House, Erik the Phantom was God, for surely God knew the whole of his world inside and out. And Erik heard and saw everything that went on in the Opéra Populaire! No place was safe from his eyes and ears. All Omniscient! Almighty Erik! Phantom of the Opera!

And in his madness, all these thoughts, contained in his head, could not block out what hurt him the most. His Angel, Christine! He had stopped banging his head on his organ for he had gotten so violent in the action that there was now blood running down his forehead and onto the mask that he wore to cover his horrid face.

So that was how he would die! Loss of blood! Not half as interesting as dying of a broken heart, but it was much faster indeed! He wouldn't have to suffer as long with the pains in his heart, not being able to take the loss of his sweet, understanding and accepting Angel, the little Swedish Soprano.

But the bleeding stopped much to the monster's disappointment. Now he would have to take longer to die! He sighed in the pure agony clutching at his heart. His dear, precious Christine! Oh, he was wasting away for love of her! How could he have ever thought himself to be a god when she wouldn't even look him in the face!

It was then that he had fallen from his heavenly throne, then that he had dug her perfect nails into the deformed mass of flesh that was his face. He had her tare them down bothe sides, ripping off the dead skin, and it had coagulated underneath her finger nails. She cried out in horror, and the tears had splayed down her lightly rouged cheeks. Then was when Erik realized that he had hurt her. Perhaps not in actuality but still, that was when he crashed from Earth to Hell and had whimpered like a dog at her feet.

And then she made him believe…and tore Erik down again! Smashed the great throne upon which he sat in his hideous heaven that night when he sat upon Apollo's Lyre. So much the better he supposed. She was a Shrew, and little else; a clever, deceitful little girl, that he had cared for since her arrival at the Opera. His affection was fawned on her form the moment he had first set eyes on her.

Thinking about his precious little angel was too much for the angel that was man. He put a hand ore his brow and one placed upon his heart and breathed heavily. He knew that soon he would be in death's grip for love of the little Swedish soprano. Oh, love was more of a curse than a happiness when it was love that was unreturned.

"Oh, Christine!" Erik wondered if she would come back with the plain golden ring, as he had asked of her so to do after the ad was placed informing the young couple of his impending death. "How I am little more than a simple servant, a dog, less than human, ready to die at your feet!" He entered a roving self pity and anguish over her unreturned affection that he moaned. "If only there was not this infection, this grotesque affliction in my being, then, and only then, will you love me!"

But, Erik knew, Erik was not God. And so, his misshapen face was still ugly, ugly as the first sins of Adam and Eve. But the forbidden kiss from a live woman, his consented living wife, was more than enough, rather more than Erik felt that he deserved from one of so great beatific standing, his pure angel, his good little Christine.

Beauty and the Beast. Angel and Devil. Opposites that were never meant to be.

(Magnets weren't really common yet, haha)

This is pure Leroux Phantom, as one might just be able to tell from his quite obvious insanity, not just obsession with Christine, and the morbid appearance in which Erik is described. Some parts or the whole can be considered as 1st person, seeing as Erik likes to refer to himself in the 1st person, other's from Leroux/my(however you want to look at it) POV

Hope you enjoyed the prettily morbid piece. I still Love Erik!

ISW


End file.
